


Veniens Domus

by dreamfighter



Category: Dissidia: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy IX, Japanese Actor RPF
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, may or may not make sense to anyone but melonpaan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24108883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamfighter/pseuds/dreamfighter
Summary: Love is the bad, as well as the better, not lived alone, but a journey together. Set in the worlds ofDissidia Duodecim: Final FantasyandFinal Fantasy IX. (repost)
Relationships: Horikita Maki/Ninomiya Kazunari
Kudos: 1





	Veniens Domus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [melonpaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpaan/gifts).



**the girl.**

_I found another one!_

_Another has come. More will arrive to heed the call of the light. You must be vigilant in your search. We do not want them to fall into the wrong hands._

_This one doesn’t look like she’ll be much help, though. Looks delicate, doesn’t she?_

_My child. You know better than to judge by mere appearances. Based on appearance alone, you, as well, would seem weak. Yet you are not._

_Oh, I know that. But still! I kind of sense it. What do you think she’s capable of?_

_I sense in her a great capacity to love._

_Love! Hah! What good would_ that _do here? We need fighters, not lovers! Don’t we?_

_We need everyone. I need everyone. And everyone needs each other._

_…Cosmos? What are you—_

_She’s stirring._

_Oh, oh. She’s waking up. That was fast._

“Who are you?” the girl asks. She only realizes she has been suspended in midair when her feet gently touch the ground. She stumbles a little when they do, hand reaching out to clamp over the shoulder of a young and slightly cat-like girl in front of her. No one else is in sight.

“Ouch!” yelps the other girl, though she doesn’t move away. “Well, I guess I can take back what I said about you looking delicate. Maybe. I’m Prishe! What’s your name?”

“My name?” The girl blinks, head tilting slightly to one side in thought. “I… Who am I?”

“Oh, _great_. Just like the Warrior of Light. Mind you, giving him _that_ name was a stroke of sheer brilliance, if I do say so myself.” Prishe hops away from the girl, shrugging the hand on her shoulder with ease and squinting her eyes, looking at the other up and down. The girl looks back with equal fascination, almost wanting to touch Prishe’s long ears but fearing that the other might bite. Prishe looks like she might, and without hesitation, too. “Aw. Can’t come up with anything! Not feeling very creative today, sorry. Guess we’ll just call you White Mage.”

“White Mage?”

“Well, yeah! Because you _are_ one. I _suppose_.” Prishe pats the top of White Mage’s hooded head before sliding her hand down to touch the red triangular patterns of the other’s cloak. “Dressed like _this_. If you aren’t, oh well! Can always come up with another one.”

White Mage looks around, her bright eyes dimming as she takes in the thick, dark clouds hanging overhead that seem to tell of an impending doom, and the barren, almost colorless land surrounding them. “Where am I?”

Prishe chuckles. “Doesn’t matter. All I can tell you is, you’re not gonna enjoy it here.”

**the boy.**

The girl finds the boy.

He wakes up to a low murmuring and the feel of soft hands caressing his face. The hands slowly become warm— _with magic_ , he thinks, though he doesn’t know how he knows it. Instinctively he rolls away, but he only manages to curl up on his side, pain shooting up his chest as he coughs. To his ears, it sounds like a dog that got a bone stuck in its throat, though he doesn’t know how he knows that, either.

In fact, he couldn’t remember much of anything, except having his ass fantastically whopped by someone who looked like he had every right to whop everyone else’s ass. The man called himself Garland, was nearly gigantic in size and had an equally gigantic weapon. Garland had insisted the boy come with him.

The boy didn’t. He didn’t take well to someone imposing their authority on him, even if that someone is ten times larger in size. They battled, the boy was defeated, and Garland had walked away triumphant and convinced that the boy had been summoned into this world to be a minion of the dark side.

“Don’t move,” comes a voice, the same one that had been murmuring earlier. “Not yet. You’re hurt, so please. I’m only trying to help.”

Instinct tells him to listen, but he doesn’t, and he briefly wonders if he’s always been this contrary even if he couldn’t remember anything. Not even his own name. He raises a gloved hand, a card materializing from his palm before it glows to ignite into flames. “ _Fire!_ ”

It explodes impressively, though seconds later he discovers his own magic does nothing more than push back the hood covering the girl’s head and make her cough from the smoke.

“That’s not a very nice thing to do to someone who’s been helping you,” she says, mildly reproachful, one hand coming up to rub at her eyes. “But thank Cosmos you didn’t use stronger magic. I think it would have burned your hand more than anything else.”

The boy stares up at her. Just visible from the hair over her forehead is a protruding horn. “You have a horn,” he states rather stupidly.

“Oh. Yes.” Bringing it to her attention seems to have embarrassed her. Her hands flutter upwards and he thinks she’ll wear the hood over her head again, but she doesn’t. Instead she runs her fingers through her hair, a shy gesture. “I don’t… know why, though. Or what it’s for. I cannot remember much of anything.”

“Neither can I,” he admits before he can stop himself. She didn’t seem harmless, anyway. Though as frail as she looked, he thinks he shouldn’t underestimate her. “I don’t remember who I am.”

“Me neither.” They look at each other. She gives him a small smile, more seen by the way her eyes crinkle than the slight lifting of the corners of her mouth. It is only then that he realizes she’s been looking at him from above and his head’s been resting on her lap all this time. He tries to move away. “Please don’t. I used _Curaga_ —”

“You know _Curaga_?” he can’t help but ask, impressed despite himself that she should know such high-level magic.

“Yes,” she says, looking slightly embarrassed. “Yes, but with your wounds, it’s going to take some time for it to have its full effect.” She glances at him, and then looks away. But her eyes keep flicking up to stare into his yellow ones while her hands busy themselves with dusting off his blue coat. Her gaze makes him feel uncomfortable. Maybe anyone would, lying on someone’s lap in the middle of nowhere.

“It’s not very polite to stare at strangers,” he finally mutters, turning his head a little, and then stops as he realizes doing so would only make his face burrow further against her thighs.

Her face falls. “I’m sorry.”

He feels guilty for some reason. “It’s alright.”

“I’m truly sorry,” she says again, contrite. “It’s just that…” she pauses, looking down and nibbling a little on the corner of one lip. “I feel like I know you.”

“Do you?” He looks back up at her, squinting his eyes a little as he tries to remember—if he can remember her. “I can’t say that I do. Sorry.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Thanks for helping me.”

“It’s not a problem.” She’s smiling a little again, and the sight of it makes him feel a little better. “This would make us not strangers anymore, wouldn’t it?”

“I guess not.”

“I’m White Mage,” she offers. “You must be a Black Mage; may I call you that?”

**destiny odyssey.**

“How about traveling together?” she asks later and a day, time trickling slowly by as the clouds overhead moved just as slowly, remaining as they are without any seeming indication as to whether the sun had set or risen.

“The person who defeated me said I’m a soldier of Chaos.” He looks at her, taking in her entire white-cloaked appearance. “Not to judge a book by its cover, so to speak, but I think it’s pretty safe to say that you’re not.”

“Cosmos was the one who called me,” she affirms.

He nods, falling silent as he stares out at the horizon, before bringing up a gloved hand to his face and gazing at it, as if to make sure it is really part of his body. He peels off the glove and flexes his fingers. They are slightly—to put it bluntly, he thinks so himself—pudgy. Yet, putting the glove back on, it feels as if it is one size too large for his hands. He has a feeling they are hand-me-downs. “Doesn’t that mean we can’t work together?” he finally says.

“I don’t know.” She reaches up to place the hood of her cloak back over her head, and Black Mage finds himself looking up to see her horn just before the cloth covers it. “Maybe it doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe not,” he agrees, not opposed to the idea at all. She may look physically weak, but she can heal. If they encounter Garland again, two is always better against one. Theoretically speaking. He bends down to reach for his pointed hat and places it over his head, feeling it dip forward and cover his eyes. (One size too large, again.) He pushes it back with a sigh. “I don’t really care for this war, wherever we are.”

“Except to survive?”

“Only for that.”

**two piece and a biscuit.**

He’s glad he decided not to underestimate her. There is something about the way she holds herself that tells him she is trained for everything she does. The way she walks, her manner of speech—though the latter really isn’t so different from his, it’s polite and soft-spoken. But there is nothing soft with the way she brings her rod down a manikin’s unsuspecting head. He’d feel sorry for the enemy, except they were heartless and soulless and not worth feeling sorry for at all. Sometimes it’s enough for her to finish off a low-level manikin without using any magic. (He wonders if she’s been taught to hit exactly where it hurts and comes to a decision to never be on the receiving end of her weapon.)

“Are you a princess?” he asks her one day, after hours of watching her trudge a few steps ahead of him. Well, she walked. He trudged. He’d been studying the way her feet fall on the ground, always the same no matter what terrain they traveled on. Almost as if she is walking on air.

She stops, turning around and blinking a little. “Pardon?”

“Maybe you’re a princess.” He waves a hand to gesture at her from head to toe. “You know. Like royalty, or something. Just a hunch.”

“Do I look like one?” Her cheeks stain slightly pink.

“Kind of.” Her obvious embarrassment embarrasses him a little, but he pushes on. “If a princess were stuck here in the middle of nowhere like we are.”

She laughs quietly, one hand covering her mouth. He’s glad he can make her do so. “I don’t have a crown, though.”

“So? Queen Garnet doesn’t wear one all the time. And she’s a _queen_.”

He doesn’t realize exactly what he’s said until she asks, curious, “Who is Queen Garnet?”

Black Mage opens his mouth to explain, but the memory eludes him as quick as it comes. “I’ll remember,” he says. “I’ll remember later.”

_He doesn’t remember her name the first time he hears it. Ma-ri-na, she says slowly, for his benefit. My name is Marina._

_Marina? He looks confused. I thought it was Maki._

_She giggles before she remembers that it’s not very nice to laugh at someone else’s mistakes. That doesn’t sound like Marina at all, she says._

_Well, that’s what I heard, he tells her. They are crouched together in a dark, narrow alley, the one he usually skids into to avoid mishaps, mishaps that he usually finds himself in the middle of even though he had nothing to do with them. Except someone is already there. It’s the second time she’s using his hideout for her own, and he isn’t very pleased. Well, nice meeting you, Lady Marina. I guess._

_Please don’t call me that, she mumbles, bunching up her skirts in one hand so they won’t touch the ground. She’d get scolded again if she returns with her clothes dirty._

_What do I call you, then?_

_She thinks, reaching up with her other hand to scratch her cheek. There is a smudge of dirt there when her hand comes away. Maki would do, she tells him._

_Fine, he says. He’s still not pleased. What’re you doing here then, Maki?_

_Someone calls out her name from a distance, sounding almost desperate and nearly sobbing in frustration. Feet run by heavily, but the two children crouched on the ground remain unnoticed._

_She looks up at him with wide, guilty eyes. Hiding, she answers._

_They become instant friends._

**hard habit to break.**

The way his fingers move as he deals his cards before attacking is almost graceful. White Mage doesn’t think she’s ever seen a Black Mage who doesn’t use a staff and combines magic with playing cards instead. Somehow, doing that makes his attack appear more powerful than usual.

“They’re not really normal playing cards,” he explains one time, after a brief respite from a battle with several manikins. Black Mage thinks the manikins have thickened into droves the moment he’d begun to feel that he was finally getting used to this world. It’s as if some unknown being had sensed his complacency and decided to test his mettle once more. “It’s from a card game we have back h—in my world.” He stops himself just in time from saying the word ‘home.’ The last time he’s mentioned it made White Mage’s eyes dim and lose their usual spark. The conversation then had trailed off awkwardly, until they had to face yet another manikin and the matter was forgotten. Until now.

He pulls out one card from his deck and shows it to her. “The cards already have magic, see. For attacking other cards. So if you infuse magic into it…” He finishes the sentence with a vague gesture of his hand at the shattered crystal remains of the manikin they’d just taken care of.

She studies the card in her hand intently, looking at one side, and then the other. “Can you do card tricks?”

He doesn’t even look surprised that she’s asking and instead looks as though he is expecting such a question. His answer is smug. “Yes.”

_Could you show me one? She looks excited at the prospect of seeing a trick done right before her very eyes, but doesn’t forget her manners even so. Please?_

_He complies, shuffling the deck with ease and biting back a laugh at the ‘oooh’ she lets out. He shuffles the cards into the air for her further entertainment, grinning as she clapped her hands, her mouth a small ‘o’ as she watches the cards glide in midair almost magically before falling back into his hand. Then he asks her to choose one. Look at it but don’t show it to me, he says._

_She does so, giving him a furtive look before holding the card up to her face, cupping it carefully in her hand as if this will ensure he wouldn’t be able to see her choice. A Chocobo. He watches as her eyes widen slightly before she tries to school her facial expression into one of feigned disinterest. She picked out a strong card, for sure. Okay, she says._

_He shuffles the remaining cards again, picking one out. Is this it?_

_No._

_He tries again. How about this?_

_She shakes her head, biting on her lower lip to keep from smiling._

_This one?_

_No, she almost sing-songs, torn between looking delighted that he’s getting it wrong, and actually wanting him to get it right._

_Oh. He sighs, slipping the cards back into his pocket and looking defeated. She swallows and looks down, feeling bad about his failure. Look, she offers, I’ll just show you—_

_What’s this? he asks at the same time, reaching behind her ear and pulling out something. A Chocobo card._

_Ehhh?! The look on her face is almost priceless. He laughs, smug. It’s the first time he’s seen her react like that. It’s not very lady-like, like she’s always being told to be. That was simply… She pauses, brows furrowing a little as she tries to think of one of the words Aiba-chan always uses. Awesome!_

_Thanks, he says, trying not to look too pleased. Somehow the way she’s smiling at him right now makes him reach out again to tuck her hair behind her ear._

_Was there another card there? she asks, looking at his hand when he steps back._

_He just laughs._

**one for the record books.**

He teaches her how to play Tetra Master.

There are days when, tired from all the battling, they’d find themselves a hidden cove beneath the rocks. It’s rarely cozy, except in size, the jagged formations poking their every side, but they make do. He’d expected being pressed close together side by side would generate a certain amount of awkwardness, but to his surprise it felt comforting. He creates a small fire, just enough to light the place but not enough for them to be seen from the outside.

His cards revert to their original purpose of being playing cards (“So they _are_ playing cards,” she observes; “Not _normal_ ones,” he insists, and she hides a smile behind her hand) while they hide and try to pass the time. Manikins only attack when faced head-on. Avoiding them like this is much safer, though Black Mage had to admit he liked the encounters with them sometimes just to break the monotony. (White Mage says she likes the exercise. She always did seem more fit than he was; she ran faster when they needed to escape.)

“The numbers on the left side represent the value of the card, times sixteen,” he explains. He can tell she’s listening intently by the way her head tilts slightly to one side, making a few strands of her hair fall over her cheek. For a moment, he is almost overwhelmed by the sudden urge to brush her hair back. Instead he brushes the urge aside, wondering where it even came from. “So one is sixteen, two is thirty-two, and so on. The higher the value, the better your chances of winning. Got it?”

She nods. “I think so.”

He draws a makeshift board on the ground. “I’ll go first.” He gives her a grin. “Don’t show me your cards.”

She makes a small face at him as she tucks her cards closer to her chest. He laughs.

The game is over before it has nearly begun, White Mage sweeping off all his cards on the board. He tries not to sputter. “How—”

“I’m good with adding up numbers,” she says, almost in wonder, as if this is something she has only remembered about herself. She catches the astounded look on his face and tries not to laugh. “I’m sorry?”

_Maybe you should’ve thought twice before deciding to teach her how to play, Matsumoto says lazily from his perch. He is thumbing through a well-worn book of magic that Aiba had knicked from Alexander-knows-where. Aiba has the quickest hands out of all of them. You only teach that game to people you think you can beat. Like this idiot, he says, gesturing to Aiba, who’d been watching the match with knitted brows._

_Hey! Aiba protests. Maki ducks her head, one hand coming up to cover her laughter. Even Maki-chan mocks me!_

_That’s okay, I don’t mind losing._

_Aiba gasps. That’s not what you said when I beat you that one time!_

_Matsumoto shakes his head as they bicker more. They only do just to hear Maki laugh again, he thinks._

**clover-colored rabbit’s foot.**

It had been his idea, and in hindsight, it wasn’t a very good idea.

“One should never judge by appearances,” she tells him, having to raise her voice as they both dodge the attack of the higher-level Bartz manikin by jumping in opposite directions. She doesn’t know where she’s heard it before, but someone once said it.

“I didn’t know it would be this strong!” he yells. He casts powerful Flare magic, which the manikin dodges with the grace of a ballerina. Black Mage _hates_ this type of manikin. “Or this fast!” The least he could do was to keep the enemy’s attention on him, instead of on White Mage.

“ _Haste!_ ”

He feels the magic course through his veins to concentrate on his legs. On instinct, he reaches out his hand and feels hers slip into it, their fingers locking together as they run away as fast as they could, like they have a million times before.

Much later, when _Haste_ fades and they collapse onto the grass; she recovers first and raises herself up on one elbow to look at him.

Then they laugh, the sound carrying over the wind.

_That was— he begins, still too winded to form a coherent sentence._

_Awesome, she finishes for him, smiling widely._

_He groans. You have got to stop saying that. You hang around Aiba too much._

_Not as much as I’m with you, she says, and his heart swells with an unnamed emotion that deflates when she continues, Aiba-chan thinks it’s funny when I say it._

_It’s the same emotion that makes him ask, Do you like him?_

_She looks at him with a slightly puzzled smile on her face. Aiba-chan is sweet, funny, and kind, she answers honestly._

_Oh. So you do like him._

_He’s a very dear friend._

_The emotion returns with a roaring force. So… is there someone you like?_

_She only lies back down on the grass and smiles._

**the capricious thief.**

“ _VIVI?!_ ”

Black Mage and White Mage pause in their tracks, staring blankly at the young man in front of them. They all gape at each other for several moments before Black Mage finally says, “Who?”

“You!” the young man returns without missing a beat. He resembles a monkey, and not only because of the long tail that he has. There was something generally monkey-ish about him. “What are you doing here?!”

Black Mage looks at White Mage, who tilts her head to one side in thought. “Maybe your name is Vivi?” she suggests.

“I’m not Vivi,” Black Mage says firmly. He doesn’t know how, but he is sure of that fact. “Sorry. C’mon, let’s go.”

“Wait!” Monkey boy runs to catch up with them. “You look like him! I mean, you’re sure short like him. Okay, maybe you’re taller—hey.” His eyes narrow at Black Mage, and in the next second there are twin daggers in his hands and he’s poised to attack. White Mage stifles her scream with a hand, instantly stepping back while Black Mage steps in front of her protectively. “You’re a warrior of Chaos! And you,” he says, pointing one dagger at White Mage accusingly. “You’re on our side! What are you doing with him?”

“I’m on _his_ side,” White Mage says in an even tone, trying to step out from behind Black Mage and prevented from doing so because he kept pushing her back.

They stare at one another. After several moments of tense silence, the other man tucks his weapons away. “Fine. I don’t _like_ attacking girls, and you look too much like Vivi for me to take on.” He shrugs before jogging away, waving at them almost merrily. “I won’t hold back next time though!”

They watch until he’s nothing but a speck in the distance. White Mage looks at his retreating back, head tilted in thought. “He looks familiar. I wonder if…” she trails off at the look on Black Mage’s face, and she has a feeling they might be wondering of the same thing. “Are you alright?” She hesitates for a moment before pressing a soft hand against his dark cheek.

_I’m fine, he assures her._

_She is not assured. You look tired, she says, concern clouding her features. What’s wrong?_

_They stay that way for a long time, her hand on his cheek while he looks out the window. It is only when the sun begins to set when he finally speaks._

_I don’t know where I came from, he admits. I wish I did. I just remember_ being _. I don’t have parents. Black mages don’t, they say. We just come to life. Another thing that they say is… He pauses, closing his eyes and leaning slightly against her touch. They say black mages die faster than humans do. I know I’ve lived this long, but, you know. He shrugs. I don’t know how much time I still have left._

_No one knows how much time they have left, she says softly. Humans or not._

_I have a shorter lifespan, Maki._

_You’re not dying anytime soon, she says with certainty._

_How do you know?_

_Because, she says, slipping a hand in his, I’ll die when you do._

**the directionless truthseeker.**

_Lady Eiko’s daughter_

_Stay away from her freak_

_Nino!Aibapanic Let’s go, we sh_

_Soft hands_

_HereOhnoholding melon breadMy mama says I can’t play with you but_

_Airshipsky_

_Groundhurts shoved again_

_Cruel laughter_

_Hurt him and we hurt youSakuraiin front of him_

_I hope you like it_

_Melon bread again? Matsumotodeadpan_

_Her eyelashessoftagainst his cheeks_

_Run! Don’t let them catch you!_

_Kickedchesthardcough up blood_

He wakes up gasping. The clashing visions in his subconscious drift away like leaves in the wind the moment he gets air. Try as he might to grasp them, he remembers nothing.

Rubbing his chest, he looks at White Mage, who thankfully hadn’t been disturbed from her slumber by his nightmare. She is curled on her side, facing him, mouth slightly open with one hand tucked under her cheek. He’d given her his hat to use as a makeshift pillow.

Watching her breathe eases his own breathing.

But he doesn’t go back to sleep.

**wings of icarus.**

“Marina,” she says, face tilted up to the sun. Her eyes are closed and she’s smiling blissfully.

“Sorry?”

“I dreamt about it.” He’s glad to hear that she at least has dreams and not nightmares like he does. “I think that’s my name.”

“Maki?”

She laughs. “No, _Ma-ri-na_.” She says it slowly, as if speaking to a child, and he laughs as well.

“I thought you said Maki.”

“That doesn’t sound like Marina at all.”

“Do you want me to call you that?”

She thinks about it, head tilting to one side, a hand coming up to tuck the hair falling over her cheek. “I think Maki would do.”

**the girl’s last laugh.**

There are too many of them.

His breaths come short and fast, and his vision almost blurs as he whirls around to take in the sight of hundreds of manikins surrounding them. They don’t know what happened, didn’t feel the shift of the tides of war. Maybe, he thinks as he pulls out several cards to cast magic on, they are being punished by both gods for having little to do with the actual war. It was him who had always reasoned, _this would end sooner or later. The best we could do is lay low and let it blow over._

But right now, they are thick in the middle of it.

She casts _Haste_ in succession, not for them to escape but for them to attack faster. There is nowhere for them to run. Never have they destroyed as many manikins as they do now, but more keep arriving. 

The end is nowhere in sight.

He can see her arms trembling both from exhaustion and the hastening magic coursing through them. He feels the same exhaustion in his bones, but he steels his resolve and vows to never go down without a fight. Even if it means the last of his life.

Her rod arcs across the air, but her movement is sluggish despite the _Haste_ in her system.

A manikin sees its chance and strikes.

“ _Maki!_ ”

She’s smiling when she falls to the ground, blood staining her cloak a glorious shade of magenta.

**at odyssey’s end.**

_Please_ , he prays.

_If you can hear me. Please. I beg you._

He doesn’t move away, his body shielding her lifeless one.

_I don’t care if I have to go through this war again. If that’s what it takes._

He feels a swift kick hit one side of his rib and gasps in pain. But he remains where he is. The sensation is nothing new to him.

_I don’t care if I have to relive this. But please._

A bullet rips through his shoulder and he bites down so hard on his lower lip that he tastes steel, eyes closed in concentration.

_Please take her home._

It is his last coherent thought before the sword that dives into his side finally felled him.

**a single answer.**

“He’s awake,” a voice screams in his ear.

Nino groans as he cracks his eyes half-open, not entirely sure if his sudden headache is due to the fact that: 1) Becky had just screamed in his ear, 2) sunlight is pouring in from the lopsided blinds by the window which no one ever bothers to fix, and straight to his eyes, or 3) his entire body is aching as well. “Am I—?”

“Nino!” Aiba’s face is suddenly looming too close for comfort over his own, but it is a welcome sight. “Thank Gaia! Where’ve you been?! We—”

“Is he awake?” The footsteps thundering up the stairs add to Nino’s headache. Sakurai stops at the end of the bed, face tense as he takes in Nino’s condition. Relief creeps into his expression, but it passes as he proceeds to berate the bedridden man. “Where the _hell_ have you been?” he snaps, beginning to pace back and forth. It’s a small room; more so with everyone crowded around him, so the most Sakurai can do is practically go around in circles. “Vanishing into thin air with no word _whatsoever_. We thought you’d _fallen_ into some sewer and got eaten by rats—”

“But we knew he wasn’t, I asked the rats,” Aiba interjects.

“Or trapped in the Evil Forest,” Sakurai goes on as if Aiba hadn’t spoken, “Or— _somewhere_. I had all the men _looking_ for you, damn it. Then you appear in your bed just this morning, bloodied and bruised—”

“And with a few broken bones,” Becky chimes in. “I straightened them out though!”

“Thanks,” Nino tells her, attempting to smile. He’s sure it looks more like a grimace instead. He can tell it’s Becky’s magic in his body; the _Cure_ she used is jumpy, like it’s shooting around his veins.

“You were gone for _three weeks_!” Aiba exclaims just as Sakurai opens his mouth again for another long-winded rant.

“ _Am I going to keep being interrupted?!_ ”

Matsumoto, who had been standing by the window and watching the entire chaotic exchange with a half-smile on his face, walks over to Sakurai and places a hand on his shoulder. “Nino’s back,” he says simply. “That’s what matters.”

Nino looks up at Sakurai. The older man had been the first one to defend him from bullies who’d have too much strength and time on their hands but not enough brains, back when they were all children. Sakurai had looked out for him ever since, and they both know that this time isn’t any different from the other times that he had. “Thanks, Sakurai-sama,” Nino says, lips quirking up, the honorific more of a nickname than anything else, but again, they both know the respect is there all the same. He looks around the room, catching the gaze of each one. “Everyone. Thanks.”

Aiba murmurs something about dust in his eye, sniffing as he wipes his tears with the back of one hand while Becky rolls her eyes, sighs and shoves a handkerchief at his chest.

Sakurai allows himself to relax, smiling a little as well. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m going to puke.”

Becky rushes to thrust a bowl in Nino’s hands while Sakurai orders everyone to get out. Nino half-laughs and half-wheezes as he tries to say that, no, he was only joking, when a thought crosses his mind that makes the laughter die in his throat and has him sitting up in bed despite his injuries. The bowl clatters to the floor.

“Maki,” he demands suddenly, urgently. “Where’s Maki?”

Everyone exchanges blank looks. “We don’t know,” Aiba finally says, “She hasn’t been here for weeks, either,” and Nino feels like throwing up for real.

**the canary soul.**

_You wish for him to be returned home?_

_Yes. I wish it most fervently._

_Why?_

_There are always two sides to a war. Those who wish to fight and those who wish to defend. And yet, there remains to be those who do not wish to fight at all. He is one of those who desire to live._

_How wonderful it must be, to live for the sake of living._

_There is one more thing..._

_What is it?_

_I do not wish to fight, either._

_What do you desire?_

The girl smiles. _To be with him._

**veniens domus.**

Nino drifts in and out of sleep.

When he next wakes one morning, it is to a low murmuring and the feel of soft hands caressing his face. The hands slowly become warm—because, he realizes, cracking his eyes half-open again—they are pressing a freshly-baked melon bread against his cheek. And then he hears her laugh.

He opens his eyes fully to meet hers crinkled at the corners because she’s smiling widely, and he’s sure the same smile is mirrored on his face.

“Hello,” he croaks.

Her other hand slips into one of his, the way it has a million times before. “I’m home.”

the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://je-whiteday.livejournal.com/54796.html) for JE White Day 2012. _veniens domus_ is Latin for ‘coming home,’ according to the very handy dandy Google Translate. Actually, if you type ‘coming home’ it will give you ‘domum’ but ‘domum’ seems to be an adverb for ‘home’ instead of a noun, so I used ‘domus’ instead, which means ‘home’ (noun).


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